


What Does The Fox Say?

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, F/M, Flirting, Furries, Furry, Orgy, Say crack one more time, Sex Party, it's crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: There’s a case. Witches or something, and they’re killing people, specifically furries, maybe. As such one Dean Winchester goes to a furry sex party to look for clues…
Relationships: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	What Does The Fox Say?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @kalesrebellion on Tumblr and their “Bring On the Giggles” challenge. The challenge was using 'out there' synonyms for genitalia. I think mine will be obvious, no? 
> 
> (This is not actual nsfw, it's pre smut flirting because I was too lazy to write furry smut). 
> 
> Sidenote - no disrespect to the furries who walk among us. It’s all exaggerated crack!fic. Peace and love. Yiffy on my friends.

From the outside, it looks like any other two-story townhouse. There’s a car parked out front, normal mailbox, the works. Regular suburban home. The first clue that something out of the ordinary is happening inside—where the ordinary is mom, dad, and two-point four ankle-biters having dinner—is the windows. They’re all covered, curtains or blinds, it doesn’t matter. This is what it looks like when humans try to cover their tracks. Monsters choose places that are already deserted and forgotten. Humans hide in plain sight and end up sticking out like a sore thumb.  
  
Plus Dean has spent all day talking to furries about _this_ house. Yeah, that’s the biggest clue, not the damn curtains.  
  
He’s had multiple lectures, not only from Sam but the furries, people, themselves. _It’s not all about porn_. They’d told him adamantly. Showed him drawings and all these things they’d made each other, and pictures from their conventions. _We’re not all perverts!_ They could say it until they were blue in the face (they had), but Dean’s standing here looking at this house, knowing what’s inside, and it’s hard to believe the furries-are-innocent propaganda.  
  
It’s even harder to believe he’s walking in there of his own free will. The things he’ll do to save lives.  
  
Sam told him to change because “Freeze, FBI” might not go down well at this particular house party. What’s he supposed to change into? A Halloween costume? That suggestion earned him yet another talk about respecting people’s interests. Whatever. He gets it, they don’t all have full fursuit things and even the ones that do, don’t generally fuck in them, and really? Is it really fucking necessary that he knows this much about furries?  
  
At least he can put on a plain black tee and some jeans and Sam only half presses his lips together in disapproval. What is his brother expecting him to wear to a furry sex party? Cat ears? (Dean is offended by the implication even if Sam didn’t say it out loud).  
  
Eventually, shuffling his feet, he makes it to the door and knocks. He doesn’t want to be here but Sam’s working another lead on the other side of town at a D&D meet up. All jokes about dungeons aside, Dean would have given up his music privileges all the way back to Kansas to switch places. Once again, scissors bit him in the ass.  
  
The door opens a few inches, enough to see, hand to god, a guy in white rabbit-ish body paint. He raises his eyebrows in Dean’s direction like he’s asking for something without saying the words. The guy _definitely_ doesn’t twitch his nose and it _definitely_ doesn’t remind Dean of that bunny from Bambi.  
  
Oh shit. The password. Right, because that was how you made a gathering like this more legit and less embarrassing.  
  
Dean’s throat tightens like the words don’t want to come out, or like he doesn’t want them to exist, “Yiffy Ki Yay.”  
  
Furry sons of bitches have even ruined Die Hard.  
  
The guy nods and pulls the door open enough to let Dean slide in, but not reveal too much of the clandestine activities to the outside world. Not that anyone on Maple Avenue is looking into this particular door. Either the neighbors know better or they don’t care. Although now that he’s inside Dean can see his nameless host is also wearing tall, white ears and furry cuffs on his ankles and wrists. The first of what, Dean assumes, will be many red flags that he should leave. Not that he heeds the warning.  
  
“First time?” The rabbit asks while Dean attempts to scan as much as he can see without a slack jaw.  
  
“Yeah,” he breathes out.  
  
Dean has been around the block. He’s seen the inside of more than just strip clubs. His number one use of the Internet is porn, his second? More porn.  
  
This is something else.  
  
He’s not judging, well, he’s trying not to judge and failing miserably. These people aren’t hurting anyone though. In fact, someone might be trying to hurt _them_. Or the D&D players. They were still on the fence about how the groups were linked beside the weird deaths.  
  
Granted some of this party seems very vanilla from what he can see. He catches a glimpse of the dining room, which has been cleared of most of its furniture, and there’s your everyday orgy of mangled limbs. Those limbs happen to be a little furrier than normal is all.   
  
Thankfully not everyone is dressed as an animal. Not that anybody will be telling Sam that he was right. Some people are dotted around watching, or drinking like the sex isn’t happening, and some of the people getting involved are in plain clothes. Or, naked but not wearing any sort of animal accessory. At first glance, there’s a part of Dean that thinks he can appreciate the hedonism of it, without being bogged down by the fact that they’re all cosplaying as goddamn animals.  
  
 _Animal enthusiasts_ , he corrects in his head before Sam telepathically delivers a bitch face from across town.  
  
And then he’s walking through the kitchen and there are two people nuzzling each other. People might not be the right word because they’re dressed as cats. Holding each other and stretching and bending their limbs. All feline movements and what he thinks is a purring noise, but he can’t confirm or deny because of the music coming from the cheap speakers on the counter. It might be sweet if it wasn’t in the middle of a sex party.  
  
Yeah, this is still going to take some getting used to.  
  
The rabbit is yammering, mentioning ground rules that Dean is only half listening to while he tries not to stare at the cats. He’s listening enough to follow the rules but actually, he can’t bring himself to look away from the most PC thing happening in the joint.  
  
“Did you get that because I heard the door…?” This time Floppy speaks with enough urgency that Dean snaps his focus back to the white rabbit.   
  
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll-” he wants to say ‘mingle’ like it’s a seventies swingers party and his biggest concern is where his car keys are. He licks his dry lips and they still feel like sandpaper, “-look around.”  
  
He does need to look around, talk to people, do his job. That’s why he’s here feeling like the spare dick at a fucking contest. Dean knows his limits though and before he investigates he’s gonna need a beer.   
  
Once he’s got a bottle in his hand, which he got from the fridge because he doesn’t trust anything that was sitting on _any_ surface, even unopened, he starts climbing the stairs. The tinny music, the sound of bodies slapping against each other, and the low din of people talking like normal adults all fade with each step until he’s at the top. Practically not at a furry orgy anymore.  
  
Except it’s a new horrific game now. What’s behind door number one? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers Whiskers going on about the rules of the rooms. Lock up if you want privacy. Unlocked and shut means viewers welcome. Open doors are an invitation to play. That’s the word Thumper had used, _play_.  
  
The first door is locked. He skips the second because he can _hear_ what’s going on inside and even if he was in the mood to creep (he’s not), you don’t walk in on the money shot. The third room is a bathroom, a stark reminder he’s in a house that people live in.  
  
The fourth door he tries is blissfully empty.  
  
It looks like a guest room. Walls that are basic beige and nothing identifying. Then he sits on the bed and presses his back into the wall. He realizes this bed has probably been used for the activities he’s already seen tonight.   
  
Out of sight, out of mind.   
  
Dean takes out his phone and stares, annoyed, at the screen. Sam hasn’t messaged him, so the case isn’t solved and he doesn’t have an excuse to leave. He takes a swig of his beer and types with his free hand, trying to make an excuse.   
  
**Find anything yet?**  
  
Another long drag while he waits, forcing the drink down his throat in the hopes of some small semblance of dutch courage. Or in the hopes that everything is solved, so he can go back to the motel and beat his meat to hentai like a normal person.   
  
**No, but this is actually really interesting. You?**  
  
Dean’s fingers twitch wanting nothing more than to throw the phone against a wall. If he wasn’t obligated to text back to illustrate that he’s still alive then he might leave Sam high and dry. As it is his reply is short and simple.   
  
**Nothing.  
**  
He feels no need to mention that he hasn’t actually looked yet.  
  
Dean puts his phone away and throws his head back against the wall at the exact moment the door opens.  
  
She stumbles in with the ghost of a giggle on her lips. He’s expecting there to be someone following her considering the party he’s attending. Two people blundering into a room looking for a place to get some privacy. Except she’s alone and she’s not concerned to find him alone either. Her eyes widen a little but her smile is soft, “sorry, you’re not waiting on someone are you?”   
  
“Me?” He asks, concerned that he has picked up some paraphernalia along the way. Anything that might suggest he’s a part of this. She continues to wait for an answer to her question instead of answering his. “No, Nah. Just taking a breather.”   
  
“Thank god, me too.” She blows out a relieved puff of air before shutting the door behind her. In doing so she flashes him her tail.   
  
She’s a fox. Or some version of a fox. She hasn’t gone as far as body paint. Her outfit almost seems costumey rather than serious. It’s this orange mini dress—if it could be called a dress for how little it leaves to his imagination—with a bushy, foxtail attached. He hadn’t noticed her ears immediately, but now he’s seen them, there they are. Ginger and pointed on top of her head, and when she turns back to him he finally notices the little, black nose she has painted on.  
  
She sits down next to him, scoots herself on top of the sheets making them bunch under her. She doesn’t seem to care about him having dibs over the bed or room and it only takes a few seconds for him to not care either. In this close proximity, inches apart, he doesn’t see a fox, even if she is definitely dressed up as a fox. He sees bare legs crossed at the ankle, her dress fighting to contain her cleavage and the sheen of her skin from dancing. She’s holding a red solo cup, he assumes half full of alcohol considering the pink flushing her cheeks.   
  
“I’m going to take a guess,” she leans until her shoulder is pressed against his arm, “you’re either a first-timer or you’re lost.”   
  
Dean laughs because he feels lost even if his cover is supposed to be the former. “First time, that obvious, huh? Thanks for pointing it out. Real considerate of you.”   
  
She bites her lip enough to get him looking at her mouth. Thinking about her mouth. “Wolf?”  
  
“What?”   
  
“I get it, first-timers are still trying to be normal, but the dark colors and the brooding loner thing you have going on in here. A wolf missing his pack?”   
  
She brings her knees up and bends her legs under herself while she guesses. Twists her body in his direction.  
  
He can’t tell if she’s joking. It sounds half ridiculous and makes him think of the kind of wolves he hunts. Dean lies anyway, “ding ding. Tell the woman what she’s won. Or do you prefer..?”  
  
Dean waves a hand to her everything fox related as if he might seriously start using ‘fox’ instead of ‘woman’. His gesturing hand lands on her waist while the other takes another swig from his brown bottle.  
  
“‘S fine. We’re all still people underneath. I’ve got a job and everything.” She rolls her shoulders like she’s showing off for being employed, which shuffles her whole body half an inch closer to his until her knees are touching his thigh. She’s facing him, his arm still lazily, half wrapped around her as she raises her cup to her lips.   
  
“Oh yeah, what do you do, sweetheart?” He lets the syrup fall from his mouth because foxes like honey. 

She laughs, the sound tinkles in the space between them. “I’m a diner chef. Nothing exciting unless you like to eat?”   
  
His tongue peeks out between his teeth, his lips smirking suggestively. “I’ve been known to enjoy a-,” Dean’s eyes flick down her body to where her dress is stretching over her thighs, and then back to her face, “fur burger.”  
  
Nowhere else on the fucking planet would he get away with saying that. Only at a furry sex party. She doesn’t just smile at his line though, she hums, pleased he’s playing along, and slides a hand along the outer hem of his jeans. Fingers slowly crawling up his leg and tracing the denim. 

One blink and the air is thicker, heavier, and Dean doesn’t give a shit when it happened. 

Her eyes flash playfully as she finishes her drink. “Mmm, the only way to make sure a burger is done is a good thrust of a meat thermometer.” 


End file.
